PS 3505 


.018 


C5 


1921 




Copy 


1 







s 



CHIMES 

RUNG BY THE 

University District Herald 



'%-W- 



For the bells are ringing, 

The bells are ringing, 

Listen to the message in their chime. 

"You better be a Booster, 

Yes, be a better Booster, 

And boost a little better all the time." 



^ ^ % 



BY 

ALICE ROLLIT COE 



Copyrighted 1921, Seattle 



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DEC 19 '21 



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Page 3 



College 



7 Where are you going, my pretty maid? 
^ "I'm going to college, Sir," she said. 
fi^ O, don't go there if you love your life, 
It will quite unfit you to be a wife. 
"But I thought a woman's work was 

such 
That a body could never know too 

much." 
O, no, my child, it would never do; 
A man always knows enough for two. 
"Then why was I given a mind? say!" 
So you could change it from day to day. 
" Well, then if I must marry, must I 

forego 
All the wonderful things I long to 

know?" 
Alas! my child, it is better so. 
The maiden stood by the campus gate. 
Consider, before it is all too late; 
A little Latin and Greek may prove 
An armor to turn the shaft of love. 
Dan Cupid would be in no end of a 

panic 
At the thought of a girl with a brain 

titanic. 
He would scurry away with scant apol- 
ogy 
If he found you coquetting with Old 

Psychology. 
The more for ancient lore you yearn, 
The less of the lore of love you'll learn. 
"But the world is so full of beautiful 

things!" 
Yes, yes, my child, but Love has wings. 
He may flit away, long, long before 
Your tiresome college days are o'er. 
Those capital letters that follow your 

name 
Are proof it will ever remain the same. 
The more degrees from your Alma Ma- 
ter, 
The more degrees from Hymen later. 
So, pretty maiden, be warned, I pray. 
From the paths of learning turn away. 
In one scale books. 
In the other — a man! 
Hesitate, educate, then, if you can. 
With a careless laugh, that mocked at 

fate. 
The maiden that passed through the 

campus gate. 
But passed she in? 
Or passed she out ? 
Well, you can decide for yourself, no 

doubt. 

MAY B. KNOTT. 



Babushka 



A great presence has been in our midst. 
She came and spent a quiet day under 

the shadow of the Chimes Tower. 
"Babushka" has been here. 
And what was the message she 

brought ? 
An appeal for her beloved Russia? 
For the peasant. 
Dulled by years of oppression? 
For the. millions of children 
Who need not only food to keep their 

bodies alive, 
But even more, need teachers to keep 

their soul alive ? 
Yes. 

But something else. 
The witness of unconquerable faith in 

God and humanity. 
Half a life of exile? 
She never mentioned it. 
The hardships and privitations she had 

been through ? 
They were as though they had never 

been. 
Russia and her great need. 
And the children, the children. 
These were the things she talked of. 
Love and hope shone from her coun- 
tenance. 
Every selfish mean thought seemed to 

wither up in her presence. 
The little, petty, fancied ills that we 

give house room 
Scuttled away into dark corners like 

so»many cockroaches. 
And we feel, for a time at least. 
That they will never dare show their 

ugly black faces again. 

MAY B. KNOTT. 



Page 4 



Better Speech 




Say It With Flowers 

"Say it with flowers!" 

"Spring is in the air/ 

The snow of the cherry blossoms and 

the pink apple petals are spread for 

our delight. 
Nature is saying it with flowera. 
She might, perhaps, say it some otker 

way. 
The urge of life, 

The whipping up^ of dormant energies, 
The start of the new cycle, — 
She might, indeed, say it in sterner 

ways. 
But no. 

She chooses to say it with flowers. 
And the maple is in tassel; 
The star of the dogwood gleams among 

the firs and cedars; 
The deep rose of the wild currant 

warms the shadowy places of the 

wood. 
Nature will choose the beautiful way, 
And say it with flowers. 
"In the spring the young man's fancy 
Lightly turns to thoughts of love." 
He, too, will say it with flowers. 
Flowers, the most delicate, the most 

beautiful of all the gifts of earth. 
Beautiful, not only with a transient 

loveliness, 
But with the promise of good things to 

be. j } 

Say it with flowers, young man. 
Not necessarily with costly hot-house 

orchids; 
Send her a spray of apple blossoms at 

least, 
Which means that some day you will 

buy the apples for those big, flaky 

pies she is going to make. 
You can say anything with flowers. 
But don't forget that later you will 

have to say it with flour. 

JMAY B. KNOTT. 



Did you ever tuck a book into your 

pocket 
And think to yourself that you would 

have a quiet half hour's study during 

the long ride to town? 
If you did have to pay 6J cents, you 

would get all you could for your 

money. 
And then, just as you had settled your- 
self in a seat by the window and 

pulled out your book. 
Two women came in, and took the seat 

behind you. 
And begin to talk. 
Well, you know the rest. 
It happened just that way the other 

day. 
I tried to concentrate on my book 
But the voice in the rear was one of 

those — what do they call them? 
0, yes, buzz-saw sopranos. 
And there was no escape! 
The recital of personal experiences, 

past, present and possible, was thrust 

upon my un\villing ears. 
And then, suddenly, a sentence floated 

across to me — 
No, it was fired across, 
And brought me to attention like an 

order from a second lieutenant. 
As for my book. 

It might as well have been out of print. 
I tried to grasp the meaning of the 

words I heard. 
To analyze them, to take them apart 

to put them together again. 
I clutched at them, but I might as well 

have clutched at fog. 
I said them backward and forward 
And then began in the middle and said 
thf-m both ways; 
But it was no use. 
These were the wordb.-- 
"It don't look like it hardly did." 
It was Better Speech week, too. 
That may be the reason that I became 

obsessed with the desire to make 

sense out of that senseless sentence. 
1 tried to come to satisfactory terms 

with it. 
I tried to forget it. 
But it haunts me still. 
If you, or anyone else can parse that 

sentence, 
rieasc send it to the Lost and Found 

column of the Herald. 
No. If you want a quiet place to read, 
Take your book to the library or to 

a bench in the park. 
You may think it pays to spend 6i 

cents for a quiet half-hour. 
But— 
It don't look like it hardly did. 

MAY B. KNOTT. 



Page 5 



Q 



uestionnaires 



yes, we each of us took a surrepti- 
tious peep at the Edison question- 
naire, 

Just to see if we could answer a few, 

And each of us got a little jolt, eh ? 

We immediately began to question the 
value of questionnaires in general 

And Edison questionnaires in particu- 
lar. 

Are we not subject to this plague of 
questions from earliest infancy? 

Somebody is always trying to find out 
how much we know, 

When it would be to their advantage 
and ours to let the matter rest. 

What is the bane of school life ? 

Not learning, but examinations. 

So, we would be happy enough in this 
old world. 

If they would only let us study and en- 
joy it 

And judge us by our fruits, 

Not the facts that we can muster on 
call. 

A fig for their facts! 

What is a fact, anyway? 

Why, everybody knows that the most 
fictitious things in the world are 
facts. 

A fact depends so much on the point 
of view. 

The Good Book says, Get Wisdom, Get 
Understanding, 



But the world says. Get the Facts! 

They can't measure wisdom, nor weigh 
understanding, 

So, they judge a man by the bits of 
bric-a- brae he has on display. 

Who cares how high the tide runs in 
the Bay of Fundy? 

We need all our wits to keep tab on the 
rise of the tide of taxes. 

"Where do prunes come from?" 

They come from the place wher% ques- 
tionnaires are made. 

What makes us hate to go to school? 
Questions. 

What makes us afraid to go home? 
Questions. 

What makes us shun society? Ques- 
tions. 

What makes us -afraid to die ? Ques- 
tions. - 

By the way, who are our friends ? 

The people who do not question us. 

That is all there is to falling in love. 

Two persons meet,and — take each other 
for granted. 

It is such a delightful sensation, that 
they decide to take each other foi?^ 
life. 'fM '111 

And straightway ruslfi off and,^et mar- 
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ried. 



Poor ■ml^'f^ p^ 



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And fanfey mof^ have ^39fl€^' ^vlth ques- 



MAY B. KNOTT. 



Reconstruction 



Reconstruction. 

Just fourteen letters in that word. 

Just fourteen points in President Wil- 
son's peace terms. 

Those peace terms mean just that — 

Reconstruction. 

A big word. 

Not easily understood. 

It will take years to understand those 
peace terms in all their breadth. 

Reconstruction. 

A building anew. 

The world re-made. 

There is work for everyone. 

But thank God the eternal foundations 
are there on which to build. 

Right. y^ 

Justice. i ■ 

Mercy. 

Let the treaty be written on the heart 
of men this time. 

Not on a scrap of paper." V;:M//i';,'[;|/;,m|';i 



MAY B. K1^0"^i.'i' . ; 




.// 







Page 6 



The Poet 






Puzzles For Parents 



"Puzzles for Parents" would be a good 
title for a book that we wish some- 
one would write. 

It used to be easy to be a Parent. 

At least we knew how to proceed. 

There were certain convenient conven- 
tions. 

And then there was a generally ac- 
cepted theory i^hat -children had to be 
trained ' 

And a fairly reasonable hope that the 
average child would react favorably 
to that training. 

But times have changed, 

Whether human nature has or not. 

We must mend our methods. 

We are gi-oping about in the dark, 
clutching at this thing and that, 

Seeking for some key to that baffling 
mystery, 

The heart of a child. 

It used to be supposed that quiet, and 
sane surroundings wei-e the best con- 
ditions for the unfolding of child na- 
ture, — 

And plenty of sunshine, of course. 

But apartment houses and movies offer 
little peace and quiet. 

In the multitude of counsellors there is 
safety. 

Yes, but in too much experiment there 
is peril. 

There used to be a few good old things 
to tie to, 

Like obedience, politeness, and so forth; 

But self-determination seems to have 
the right of way just now. 

It may be all right, but isn't there too 
much 'self" and too little "deter?" 

Yes, it keeps an honest parent busy 
these days, 

Trying out each new theory. 

Another text comes to mind. 

"And while I was busy, the Child es- 
caped." 

MAY B. KNOTT. 



At last the poet has come into his own. 

In the list of those engaged in essential 
industries 

We find the Poet. 

Of course he is tossed in vdth a lot 
of common folk 

Farmers, bricklayers and what not. 

But the great out-standing fact is 

He is There. 

After all these centuries of mere suf- 
ferance, 

Looked at askance by busy people, 

Tolerated as an ornamental but 
scarcely necessary adjunct of civili- 
zation, 

A pleasant enough sort of fellow to 
passed an idle hour with between 
drives. 

Now he is really accorded a place in 
the scheme of things. 

Why, even the Socialists with their 
plans for work for everybody and 
everybody at work. 

Even they, really, couldn't see where 
the poet came in. 

Homer and Milton and Shakespeare are 
well enough, 

But they are too far off to get on 
one's nerves. 

And now, at this time of crisis, 

When the slogan is — "Work or fight", 

Now, when if ever dreamers might be 
supposed to be at a discount. 

Poets are billetted with essential work- 
ers. 

How has this recognition come about? 

Men have ever been impatient with 
what they deemed the impractical. 

Behold, this dreamer cometh!" cried the 
self-seeking shepherd brethren. 

And they sold him into Egypt. 

But the dreamer was a man of vision, 

And it was to him 

They had to turn in time of dearth. 

The poets of today have claimed no 
exemption. 

They laid aside the pen and went sing- 
ing to the front. 

The beloved Rupert Brooke and a 
knightly few have already taken the 
long trail "West". 

Our own Alan Seeger has gone. 

And now Joyce Kilmer. 

Others will arise. 

We need the seers as well as the doers. 

Works may sometimes fail. 

But when the vision perisheth 

Then is the time of fear. 

MAY B. KNOTT. 



Page 7 



Ai 



ir 



Trifles light as air, 

That is the theme of my meditation. 

How often have you looked out into the 
night and said, 

"There is nothing there." 

Nothing ? 

There is the air! 

The terrible air! 

Did you not feel it touch your check 
softly like a caress ? 

And yet, how many nights have you 
wakened to hear its fierce roar, 

And feel the mighty gusts tearing at 
the very foundations of your dwell- 
ing. 

Nothing but air! 

The soft breath of Heaven! 

Have you not stood on some promon- 
tory and watched the sea lashed to 
fury by the wind? 

Have you not heard the shuddering 
crash of timber 

As some mighty tree went down before 
the sweep of the hurricane ? 

The "impalpable air." 

What a power is this silent, unseen, 
untouched thing. 

We begin to live with our first breath. 



We die when we can no longer draw on 

this mysterious force. 
The breath of life, we call it. 
It laughs, gathers itself together, lets 

loose its strength, 
And it becomes the breath of death. 
Man has tamed the earth and chained 

the lightning. 
He rides upon the sea or under it at 

will. 
Now, he boasts in his folly that he has 

conquered the air. 
The air! that gave him life but to rob 

him of it at last. 
The air! that moves his sails. 
And drives upon him the waves that 

drown him. 

The air that brings the summer rain 
to nourish his fields. 

And harries the ripened grain with hail 

stones. 
King of the air? 

The all-pervading, all-encompassing 
air? 

The wind that "bloweth where it list- 

Then is he 'king indeed. 

MAY B. KNOTT. 



Thanksgiving Day 

Once upon a time, a few colonists, 

Facing a wilderness. 

Menaced by savages. 

Cut off forever from their home land, 

Facing a future lightened only by their 
undaunted hope, 

Proclaimed a Day of Thanksgiving. 

The ideal for which they suffered and 
endured 

Dominates the world today. 

The flag that symbolizes the full 
flowering of that ideal 

Floats in starry beauty in every hem- 
isphere. 

In silence more eloquent than a thous- 
and Liberty Bells, 

It proclaims liberty to all people. 

Old Glory! 

Amid the clustering flags it shines; 

Over lands redeemed, 

Over nations pledged henceforth 

To Liberty, Equality, Brotherhood. 

Bearing witness to the sublime faith 
of the Pilgrim Fathers. 

A faith of which this Thanksgiving 
season is the glorious fruition. 

MAY B. KNOTT. 



Page 8 



Leap Year 



Stove Pipes 



It's time to start the furnace fire, 

The days are growing chill; 

These early fogs and rains don't tend 

To cut the fuel bill 
And Father groans to think of it 
As he sits down to sup. 
He ought to thank his stars he has 

No stove-pipes to put up. 
Don't you remember, long ago, 
How Mother used to say, 
"It's getting cool, we'd better put 

The stove-pipes up today." 
And then they'd drag the heavy stove 
Into the sitting room 
And call the hired girl to bring 
The dust pan and the broom. 
And maw, she'd tell us kids to scoot. 
And take the cat and pup. 
And keep from underfoot, so Paw 
Could put the stove-pipes up. 
Then Paw, he'd set the stove in place 
And get the pipes all ready, 
And climb up on a kitchen chair 

While Maw, she'd hold it steady. 
Then Paw, he'd wrastle with the pipes 
And turn 'em every way; 
And yank and twist the elbows round 

And jam his thumb and say, 
"Doggone!" "If you'd of minded me 
When you took 'em down last spring," 
Maw'd say, "they'd go together now. 

Easy as anything. 
You would not get them all mixed up, 
And swear and get so vexed, „ , 
If you'd marked the first one. 'i^oj 1,' 

And all the others. 'Next'." "' •" " 
The modern man may have a drop 
Of wormwood in his cup, 
But let him thank his stars there are 

No stove-pipes to put up. 

MAY B. KNOTT. 



The Sockeye Salmon run every four 

years. 
So do the bachelors; 
Or they pretend to. 
I think they rather pride themselves on 

being pursued. 
But they are really relieved to have 

the burden of choice taken off their 

shoulders. 
I should think it would be a pleasant 

change for a man 
Not to have to pick out a wife. 
But to be picked. 

You know how much trouble men have 
Making up their minds 
Which girl in the "rosebud garden of 

girls" 
They really want. 
It is Mary's curl. 
And Helen's eyebrow, 
And Emily's shell-like ear, 
Bessie is such a dear girl, 
Marion is a good pal, 
Jane is a beauty — 
And so it goes. 
I do not believe they ever do make up 

theirs minds; 
They just make a grab, and the nearest 

girl is It. 
Suppose things were reversed. 
And the girls given the three year 

term. 
And leap year left to the men. 
Perhaps, if misses had the mating, 
There would not be so much mismating. 
And the vital statistics might be better 

reading. 
A woman usually knows her own mind, 

anyway. 
She knows good matrimonial timber 

when she sees it. 
Nine times out of ten she would pick 

the right man. 
She would not worry about his eye- 
brows or his ears. 
Some of these nervous bachelors who 

talk about going into retreat during 

leap year 
Might get the surprise of their lives. 
It would be perfectly safe for them to 

be aboard after curfew, 
For nobody would see them in broad 

daylight. 
Much less after dark. 

MAY B. KNOTT. 



Page 9 



Padding 

After all, the biggest part of life is 
largely padding. 

Essentials are there, of course, but 
how few and how small they are if 
we strip them of their padding. 

You may square your shoulders and 
face the fact — 

But most of the "square" is padding. 

The display in the windows of the big 
stores — 

What is it but padding? 

We don't go down town to buy those 
lace-bespangled gowns, 

Or the expensive trifles spread out so 
alluringly before our eyes. 

No. We pass them all up and take the 
elevator to the second floor (or the 
basement 

And buy double-heeled stockings for 
Willie, rompers for the baby, or per- 
haps enough calico for a kitchen ap- 
ron. 

But it is human nature to spend our 
dollar at the store that has a thous- 
and dollar window display. 

It is a well-known principle of dietetics 
that we must eat more than mere 
food elements. 

We must have bulk. 

The alimentary canal must be kept 
busy. 

Incidentally, the body absorbs enough 
nourishment to sustain life, — 

Padding again. 

The political orators who are let loose 
upon us just now, work on the same 
principle. 

They dare not give us only cold facts. 

They put plenty of warm padding in to 
make us feel comfortable. 



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Yes, we must have bulk and plenty of 

it, if we are to digest the political meat 

offered for our consumption. 

The mass of the people must have 
something to talk about. 

Incidentally, enough power is generated 
to keep the world going. 

And Society — Ah, here is where pad- 
ding becomes a fine art! 

Small-talk, expensive gowns, dinner- 
parties, 

Reserved space in the society column. 

Are they not all just so many cleverly 
adjusted layers of cotton batting? 

And for the political climber, a hand- 
some house. 

You can't make Front Porch speeches 
from the fourth-story window of an 
apartment house. 

Blessed be padding. 

Padding, that saves us many a hard 
knock; ' 

Padding, that takes the jar out of our 
little flivver; 

That makes us poor, lean mortals look 
as if we belonged to the Stuffed Club. 

Woe to the man who would grind life 
down to essentials; 

Who would give us the naked truth; 

Who would jerk our comfortable cush- 
ions from under us , 

And leave us not even a ribljer tire to 
ease the jolts; 

Who would strip us of all illusions and 
lash our bare shoulders with facts, 
facts. - - , . 

What is the end of^that man? 
e padded cell. 

MAY B. KNOTT. 
.^■^ 



VV I 



Henry had an Income Tax. 

It grew and grew and grew. 

And everywhere that Henry went. 

That Income Tax went too. 

It followed him to town by day, 

It shadowed him by night 

And never for one little nour 

Let Henry out of sight. 

What makes the Tax chase Henry so? 

The pitying neighbors cry. 

So Henry'U learn to chase himself. 

The assessor doth reply. 

Observe the mad gyrations T^'^»., 

Of the little sportive pup, 'iUU\}ii\W'''^^^ 

Who still pursues his latter end, 

And never catches up. ; > 

So Henry and the Income Tax 

Keep up the merry race. 

And we may follow if we will, 

While Henry sets the pace. 

MAY B. KNOTT 






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Safety Week 



Last week was Safety Week, you know, 

And Reginald was wary; 

He watched his step, or high or low, 

He drove his car most awful slow, — 

But he didn't count on Mary. 

He'd Stop, Look, Listen, left and right, 

He played safe; he was chary 

Of taking risks by day or night; 

Alas for him, the luckless wight! 

He never thought of Mary. 

Whene'er he crossed the railroad track 

He made sure there was nary 

A freight car just about to back; 

Of caution Reggie showed no lack— 

Except concerning Mary. 

He never dropped a cigarette 

Half -burned; on the contrary. 

No safety rule did he forget, 

He kept thern every one, and yet, 

It seems he forgot Mary. 

Reginald played safe, my dear. 

But if some little fairy 

Had only chanced to wander near 

To whisper softly in his ear, 

"Take care! Beware! of Mary!" 

Now Reginald is full of Pep 

But April ways are airy. 

He kept repeating. "Hep" and "Hep." 

But oh, it's hard to watch your step 

When you step out with Mary. 

The end is easy to fortell. 

'Tis quite unnecessary 

On harrowing details to dwell; 

Suffice to say that Reggie fell — 

O yes — he fell for Mary. 

His reasons there's no need to state, 

They very seldom vary; 

But if you wish to learn his fate 

(I think she set an early date) 

Just put two R's in Mary. 

MAY B. KNOTT. 



Page 10 

The Seattle Spirit 

Whom do you think I met yesterday 

down on Pioneer Square ? 
I could hardly believe my eyes. 
I thought it must be a stray bit of fog 

clinging about the Totem Pole. 
But no. 

It was the Seattle Spirit. 
Just as I passed he turned and looked 

at me. 
"Why, May B. Knott," he cried. 
"Don't you remember me?" 
"Indeed I do," I exclaimed. 
I said I remembered him all too well. 
I asked him where he had been keep- 
ing himself; 
Why he had gone off and left us when 

we needed him most. 
He gave a little laugh and twirled 

round on one toe. 
(He is just as much a boy as ever.) 
"O, they seemed to think they could 

get along without me — 
I thought I'd just take a little vacation. 
You know they worked me pretty hard 

for awhile." 
I told him that he was mistaken. 
We could not get along without him for 

a day. 
I said if he had not gone off we would 

never have had things balled up this 

way. 
The shipping — 
"0 my ships," he cried. 
I have dreamed of them for years. 
I have seen the masts clustered thick 

in the harbor. 
I have watched them in my dreams, 
Great ships a-building. 
Coming and going. 
Carrying the fame of my beloved city 

to the world's end." 
"It will be nothing but a dream," I 

said, 
"Unless you come back." 
The ways are silent. 
The keels unfinished. 
The masts unlifted. 
Well, I hope you have come to stay. 
Seattle never needed you as she does 

today." 
He smiled a big Uncle Sam smile. 
"I am within hail." 
If they want me, let them call. 
But it must be unanimous." 
And I found myself staring at the To- 
tem Pole. 
He had gone as suddenly as he had 

come. 
I wondered — 
Will they call him? 

MAY BE KNOTT. 



Page 11 



Buttons 

Button, button, who's got the button? 

Well, we have all got the button. 

But I'd rather get Central. 

It is pretty hard, 

Just as we are recovering from the 
strain of computing the income tax. 

They spring the Automatic Phone. 

I should say install. 

It stalls us sure enough. 

And suppose it does not work ? 

We punch and turn everything a dozen 
times, 

Till our brain begins to spin. 

And we long to lay hands upon some- 
one. 

Well, it will do no good to rave. 

No one cares a button. 

I do not know that I favor this auto- 
matic trend. 

This elimination of the human factor. 

Buttons, buttons everywhere. 

And no one near to think. 



Little Emily said she had a new dress 

with buttons behind and buttons be- 

front. 
And that is our case exactly. ^ 
We save time and trouble at the expense 

of neighborliness. 
Some day we will live in a box. 
As man once lived in a hollow tree. 
Solitary, but satisfied. 
With buttons behind and buttons be- 

front. 
I wonder if we will be happier than 

when we had to get out and scratch 

for a living. 
But there is one thing still untouched 

by change 
In this era of the omnipresent button; 
A man still has to have some buttons 

sewed on. 
And it takes a wife to do that, 

MAY B. KNOTT. 



Pep 



A college education is a very handy 

thing, 
When you face life's great arena and 

your hat is in the ring; 
But something more is needed e'er the 

trophies home you bring. 
That's PEP. 
There's the slow, hard-working fellow 

that they call the College Grind. 
He's a fine, concrete example of the 

steady-going kind. 
He knows enough to beat them all, 

but fails, because his mind 
Lacks Pep. 
We are all of us acquainted with the 

easy-going chap. 
He can't see honest work, because he's 

looking for a snap. 
We know why fortune's favors never 

tumble in his lap — 

No Pep. 
You may be very foolish, or you may 

be very wise. 
It really doesn't matter, so long as in 

you lies 
The one and only gift that will enable 

you to rise. 

That's PEP, 
If you would always scramble out when 

you are in a fix, 
If you would play the game of life, and 

always take the tricks. 
In short, to win! in everything, you 

must be sure to mix 

Some PEP! 

MAY B. KNOTT, 



Page 12 



Women Jurors 



H. 




Independence Day 

Independence Day. 

Once it was the Great Experiment. 

When men stood up, 

And reverently said, 

We will govern ourselves. 

The Great Experiment. 

But it stood the test. 

And the world looked on and wondered. 

As time passed they said, 

"If America can do it — 

Why cannot we ? " 

Now the testing time has come to 
them also. 

America learned that one word. 

Independence. 

Now she must put one more syllable in 

it- 
Interdependence. 

We can stand alone, 

But in another sense we cannot <stai^d 
alone. } _. 

A man must first find himself, 

Then he must find others. 

If Independence was a hard sajring, 

Interdependence is harder. 

But it must be learned. 

Today we salute the heroes who, in the 
past, wrote Independence in our cal- 
endar, 

Let us also salute those heroes of the 

New Day, who will write in the 

world calendar, in letters of gold, 

the great day of World Brotherhood. 

MAY B. KNOTT. 



One scarcely realizes how far reaching 

will be the effects of woman suf- 
frage. 
Not only in political, but in civic and 

educational affairs. 
All over this wide land of ours. 
Women may vote. 
Will she pull a steady oar? 
Or will she rock the boat? 
Even in domestic life this problem is 

causing anxiety. 
It has always been conceded that the 

home was woman's sphere. 
But that was when she worked on the 

inside. 
Working on the home from the outside 

is another thing. 
The world is beginning to rub its eyes. 
Woman's work is to keep the hearth 

fire burning. 
But we do not wish her to apply the 

torch. 
Now, women jurors are all very well — 
On a mixed jury. 
They help to mix it. 
But a jury composed entirely of wo- 
men — 
That is a packed jury. 
A sad commentary on such a situation 

came to our attention a few days ago. 
A mere man indulged in that old, that 

time honored pastime of beating his 

wife. 
He learned that he was to be tried by 

a jury of women. 
He took to the woods and hid for days. 
Without food or shelter. 
Till, at last, he was found by his dis- 
tracted family. 
And welcomed back into the bosom of 

the home 
That had so nearly been broken up 
P.v the biased verdict of such a jury. 
He realized the force of Kipling's 

line: — 
"The female of the species is more 

deadly than the male," 
And he took no chances. 
The law reads that a man must be 

tried 
By a jury of his peers. 
But- 

A jury of women! 
To try a wife beater! 
What a travesty of justice! 
What Verdict could they bring in but 

"Guilty?" 
Some of them, no doubt, were married 

women, with husbands of their own 

to keep in subjection. 
Would they dare to say, "Not Guilty?" 
MAY B. KNOTT. 



Page 13 



Elliott Bay 



They met in a little country hotel. 

The Man from Tacoma and the Man 
from Seattle. 

The Man from Tacoma was talking. 

He did not notice the Man from Seattle. 

He was extolling the beauties of Com- 
mencement Bay. 

Which was praiseworthy. 

He expatiated on the fine, natural har- 
bor; its depth and extent; and the 
facilities for making Tacoma a great 
world port. 

Everyone was interested. 

Finally, The Man from Tacoma said, 

"Now, over at Seattle, they have no 
such natural harbor as we have. 

All the harbor they have there, they 
had to dredge out." 

Right here is where they met. 

The Man from Seattle did not wait to 
be introduced. 

He simply boiled over. 

As a citizen of Seattle of twenty years' 
standing, he had a few facts to im- 
part, 

And he waded right into the harbor 
question. 

He did a little dredging on his own ac- 
count. 

If the Man from Tacoma is not able 
to think deeply after this, 

It will be his own fault. 

Dredge it out did they? 



Well, we always knew our pioneers 
were a hard working lot, and did 
big things. 

But this is a new one on us. 

It must have kept them pretty busy. 

We know now why those first white 
people sat do\^Ti on a log and cried. 

They were thinking of the work ahead 
of them before the Decatur could be 
run into port. 

But look at the good job they made of 
it. 

Five miles across from West Point 
Light to Alki Point, 

And deep enough to dump Denny Hill 
into — 

And never know it was there! '', 

Rather mean of us to sluice our super- 
fluous hills into the bay, after all 
the trouble they had dredging it out. 

There ought to be a bell-buoy or some- 
thing out there in memory of them. 

Yes, it is quite time Seattle waked up 
and did a little talking. 

And keep at it! -'- 

For there are some people like that 
Man from Tacoma; 

If you do dredge out their minds long 
enough to get a few facts afloat, 

They just fill up with silt, | V- 

And the whole thing has to be do 

^-1 --"'MAY B. KNOTT. 



again. 



lone 



Article X 

Article X is the queerest thing! 

The League was making good time, 

when — Bing! 
Someone discovered Article Ten, 
Dragged it into the light, and then 
The whole thing had to be done again. 
A League of Nations is pretty talk, 
But Article Ten made Congress balk, 
Senator Johnson tore his hair — 
"This is the Crux of the whole af- 
fair—" 
And matters came to a stand right 

there. 
And after several conversations. 
Everybody made reservations; 
The Treaty was combed with a fine 

tooth comb. 
No wonder it never could feel at home 
Under the old Congressional dome. 
The Administration, with smile benign. 
Wonders when Congress is going to 

sign. 
Of all sad things in human ken. 
Of all sad words of tongue or pen, 
The saddest, it seems, is Article Ten, 
MAY B. KNOTT. 



I 



Page 14 



Co' Boss 

"Co' Boss, Co' Boss, Co' Boss, Co' 
1^^ Boss." 
i\ I The old familiar call 
f i^ ^j Has echoed all along the years 
'Way back to Adam's fall. 
But now the poor old cow must go, 
For Henry Ford has told us so. 
How altered everything will be, 
How keen the sense of loss, 
To hear no more across the fields, 
"Co' Boss, Co' Boss, Co' Boss." 
We dream about the dear old farm, 
The dazzle and the dross 
Of City ways, how stale! beside 
"Co' Boss, Co' Boss, Co' Boss.' 
But poor old bossy has to go. 
For Henry Ford has told us so. 
He says she costs too much to run, 
She's outworn, anyhow; 
Science will find a substitute 
For the time-honored cow. 
Perhaps they will mix up some dope, 
But we might ask them whether 
We'll have to substitute for shoes 
Tin cans in place of leather? 
The farm ain't what it used to be, 
Old Dobbin's day is done; 
And now the cow is banished, too. 
I ask you, where's the fun 
In motorizing everjrthing ? 
Too soon will come the hour 
When nothing but a woman's tongue 
Will run by its own power. 
Beside the ancient spinning-wheel 
By which we set such store. 
We'll place the lowly milking-stool. 
It's working days are o'er. 
It will become an heirloom, too. 
We'll tell our children how 
We sat upon the three-legged thing, 
To milk the gentle cow. 
Perhaps they'll laugh. 
Or look quite bored. 
Or say, Hurrah for Henry Ford! 

MAY B. KNOTT. 



Seattle 

Seattle in the lime light! 

Seattle a world city! 

Of course, we who loved her in her 
youth knew it all the time. 

We felt that it myst be — sometime. 

Not in our life-time, but — sometime. 

And now, suddenly, Seattle is the heart 
of the world. 

Not London, with its age-long tradi- 
tions; 

Not Paris, with its loveliness. 

Not Berlin, the main spring of the 
most highly organized nation on 
earth. 

Not Venice, with its dreams of centuries. 

Not New York, the self sufficient. 

Not all-conquering Chicago, 

Not the City of the Golden Gate, 

But Seattle, only a short half-century 
remove from the wilderness. 

Founded by a handful of dreams. 

And the dreamers ? 

The vision of today was ever before 
them. 

They came not to build a hamlet. 

They knew, they were laying the cor- 
ner-stone of a metropolis. 

Therefore, they laid the foundations 
broad and deep. 

With sublime faith they founded — 

A mill ? a factory ? 

No. A University. 

Today the Chimes ring out over a beau- 
tiful campus and the noble group of 
buildings that cluster around old 
Denny Hall, 

Can anyone measure the power gener- 
ated by the dreams of that little band 
of pioneers ? 

Now the eyes of the world are on Se- 
attle. 

The call has come to a great patriotic 
duty. 

When has such a challenge been thrown 
to any city? 

Democracy is in the balance. 

The world needs ships. 

The great Northwest must build them. 

The appeal to the SeatT^le Spirit shall 
not be in vain. 

The call is to every man, woman and 
child. 

We live in "A city set on a hill, whose 
light cannot be hid." 

Let us "highly resolve:" 

Our city shall be clean. 

Our city shall be united. 

Our city shall be ready. 

We will fall in behind Old Glory. 
MAY B. KNOTT. 



Page 15 



The Yakima Strike 

Yakima breaks into the limelight with 

a grave diggers' strike! 
Now, if it had been Tacoma it would 

not seem so strange. 
They have had to bury so many things 

over there, 
That the grave diggers must be tired. 
But we always thought of Yakima as 

a busy little burg. 
The land of long life and the big potato. 
Then, on the face of it, a grave dig- 
gers' strike is absurd, 
If graves are going up~or should we 

say down — 50%. 
Why, we will go on strike too. 
Not, as the old verse has it, 
"For the green graves of our sires," 
But for our own. 
If a few earnest-minded citizens would 

agree to fight this thing, 
It would end a grave situation. 
Boycott all grave diggers, I say- 
It surely is enough to combat the high 

cost of living, - /^ 

Without having to face the highf^cflst 

of dying. • • 

Rather than meet this raise in graves 
We will stay on top a while longer and 

fight the sugar trust and all the rest. 
We don't want any profiteers shed 

over us. 
Who wants their old graves anyway? 
That is one thing we can very ■vy^ell do 

without. ■ i' . . 

He laughs best who laughs last. 
They will find themselves with a lot 

of graves on their hands, 
And they will have to wear them them- 
selves. 

MAY B. KNOTT. 



A Farewell Token 

Aw, shure, little token, 

'Tis only your jokin', 

You'd never be leavin', my dear. 

We're just gettin' to know ye. 

And now we must throw ye 

Away for the new wans, I hear. 

The three-cornered hole in 

Your face was consolin', 

'Twas the same, and it whistled wan 

chune. 
But this crescent, begorra! 
They're handin' tomonow. 
Who knows it won't wax like the moon ? 
This fixin' of prices 
Just throwin' at dice is, 
They always swing fur'ard not back; 
To make the cars run 
Shure we'll find 'fore we're done. 
It takes something more than a track. 



Shure nobody sits now. 
We're payin' two-bits now 
For only four throws at the strap; 
And soon we'll be gettin' 
Wan less as a settin* 
And landin' in somebody's lap. 
This railway we're buyin', 
Ochone, but it's tryin'! 
Empty pockets, that's all that it shows. 
Like the hole in the doughnut, 
The longer we own it, ; / 

'Tis the bigger the emptiness grows. ' |y 
There's no use in grievin'. ' 

I'm sorry you're leavin'; 
But there's wan thing I can't under- 
stand— 
I'm tryin' to figger, 
If the crescent grows bigger. 
Is it fares or dee-ficits expand? 

MAY B, KNOTT. 
' -^ ■'. i \ i M ' 



Page 16 



f. 



Tj^TTTTTanKsmH^ 



r 



The Simple Life 



I wonder why it does not rain. 

Every morning the clouds obscure the 

sun, 
And tne tourists can't see the moun- 
tains, _ ' 
And they make remarks about it. 
And we try to convince them that we 

really have mountains. 
They try to be polite. 
But they look bored and unbelieving. 
We couldn't see the eclipse of the sun. 
And there was an eclipse of the moon 
L ^ early the other morning, 
pAnd we couldn't see that, either. 
'It is getting hot and dusty. 
We thought Mayor Hanson was going 

to do something about the street car 

service. 
And that we would be able to get a 

seat once more. 
And not have to pay five cents for the 

privilege of being tossed about in the 

aii-^le 
Holding on to a strap with one hand 
And to a knitting bag full of packages 

with the other, 
While we side-step heavy boots 
And dodge hatpins. 
But there is no iielp in sight, 
So we fled to the counti'y for a day's 

rest. 
To a real farm where they lead the 

simple life. 
It had not rained there, either. 
Corn and spuds were holding their own 
But the oats were only half grown, 
And the wheat field looked like an 

uncut lawn. 
It turned out to be quite an exciting 

day at the farm. 
As many as two women came to buy 

butter, and there was only a pound 

apiece for them, 
And a man came to buy the pig. 
It was a fine pig, four months old, 
And he paid down five dollars and said 

he would come back in the morning 

with the rest of the money and get 

the pig. 
Well, that kept us stirred up all day. 



And just as we sat down to supper 

He came. 

He was leading a calf. 

And he said the calf had run away and 
he had chased it 

And lost his pocket-book. 

There was seventy-five dollars in it, 

But when he put his hand in his hip 
pocket to pull out his wallet to pay 
for the pig, 

His money was gone. 

He offered a check for eleven dollars, 

But a farmer always shies at a check. 

So he went back up the road to the 
place where he had the slight differ- 
ence with the calf, 

And sure enough, he found his- pocket- 
book just where it fell when he 
jumped for the calf. 

And he came back and paid for the pig 
and took it away. 

He took the calf, too. 

And the incident was closed. 

And everybody was satisfied. 

But I couldn't help wondering 

How he managed the calf and the pig. 

If he ever got home with them. 

Or if he is going yet; 

Tying up the calf to chase the pig, 

And then tying up the pig to chase the 
calf. 

And I worried about it. 

And I couldn't sleep that night, and so 
I came home, where it is nice and 
quiet 

And we do not have to watch the oats 
grow, 

For we know we can get some at the 
groceteria. 

Of course, we are busy in town, and vre 
make some noise about it. 

But there are not so many vital things, 
after all, 

And we do not feel as if our lives de- 
pended on them, anyway. 

I am . afried the strain of the simple 
life would prove too much for most 
of us. 

MAY B. KNOTT. 



Page 17 



Alarmists 



Comets 

Comets and their tails have always 

been a favorite subject of speculation 

among scientists. 
Why do comets have tails? 
What do they do with them? 
Well, what would they do without 

them? 
Many years ag'o so learned a man as 

Sir Isaac Newton ventured the opinion 
That the tails of comets supplied mois- 
ture to the earth, and stimulated the 

gTo\vth of plant life. 
Not so long ago we were all scared to 

death by a story of a comet with a 

poison gas tail. 
That was coming right at us. 
One switch of its tail over the earth, 
And that would be the end of us. 
Well, it missed us, somehow. 
But suppose someone had stepped on 

the gas? 
And so we go on guessing about comets 

and their troublesome tails. 
We are used to the fixed stars. 
We can keep taib on the planets as 

they make their little round trips on 

schedule time. 
But the harum-scarum comets with 

their swallow tails, 
Maybe they are young stars sowing 

their wilj oats. 
Or they may play the role of the jazz 

band in the music of the spheres. 
The very latest aerial advices are to 

the effect that comets' tails carry 

disease germs. 
And thereby hangs a tale. 
But we should worry. 
Maybe comets have tails for the same 

reason dogs have tails, 
So they can wag 'em. 

MAY B. KNOTT. 



Alas! for the man who is always at 

hand 
"To view with alarm" any project 

that's planned. 
To tell us the country will go to the 

dogs. 
Unless politicians quit rolling the logs. 
If the democrats wilj, if the democrats 

wont — 
If we swallow the X in the League — if 

we don't — 
If the country goes wet, or the country 

goes dry — 
From his point of view it will :5tili go 

awry. 
All sorts and all sizes of hobgoblins 

crouch 
In the dolorous path of the man with 

the grouch. 



Election is over. The women have 
voted. 

The prices are falling, (unless they're 
misquoted.) 

The troublesome League with its cross 
little X 

Has ceased to torment us; it power to 
vex 

Has passed like the passing of all 
bugaboos. 

But what does it matter to one who 
still "views 

With alarm" the whole trend of this 
broad universe; 

Happen what will, he expects some- 
thing worse. 

Yet, someone might tell him, with per- 
fect impunity, 

HE'S the worst that could happen in 
any community. 

MAY B. KNOTT. 



Page 18 



Voices 

It was after sunset. 

I walked slowly to enjoy the peace and 

beauty of the evening hour. 
I passed a modest home, 
One of the favorite bungalow type. 
Rose vines covered the porch. 
Below, big Shasta daisies grouped 

themselves, — 
A white sisterhood. 
My glance lingered on the place. 
A type of our dear American home, 

thought I. 
Simple and sweet. 
A glad place to come after a days 

work. 
Who would exchange it for — 
But my musings were rudely checked. 
A voice floated out — 
Floated? No — thrust itself into the 

still air 
Like a tongue of hot flame. 
"Not once — 

In the nine years since I married you — 
Not once have I had my turn — 
And you know it!" 
Eavesdropping ? 

Oh, no, I was way out on the sidewalk. 
I could have heard her across the 

street. 
A withering voice that scorched every- 
thing it touched. 
I hurried away. 

I forgot the roses and the white daisies. 
I saw only the ashes-of-roses of a 

burned out love. 
The white embers of the home fires. 
What of beauty, what of romance could 

live 
Under the searing blight of that voice? 
It must have been such a voice 
That moved the sage of old to write: — 
It is better to dwell alone upon the 

housetop 
Than in a wide house with a brawling 

woman. 

MAY B. KNOTT. 



A Pipeless Furnace 

My neighbor tells me they are going 
to install a pipeless furnace in their 

new home. 
Now what do you know about that? 
They have the heat so well trained that 

it vnll come up through the registers 

without being personally conducted. 
No more need we bump our heads on 

the pipes that stretch out like the 

arms of a giant octopus. 
And that fact will promote a swearless 

day. 
Of course, we know that heat rises, 
It wnll seek the upper rooms unless the 

coal man leaves the basement win- 
dow open. 
Then it will find the easiest way out. 
So. good luck to the pipeless furnace, 

I say. 
It is all in line with the present day 

tendency. 
This is the era of direct action, 
We like short cuts. 
We eliminate non-essentials, 
We already have wireless telegraphy. 
And smokeless powder. 
And the spineless cactus — 
Always getting rid of some interfering 

feature. 
Some even trj'^ a churchless religion. 
They say, "We can worship in the field 

or in the woods as well as in a 

church." 
But, as a dear old minister used to 

say — 
"You can, but do you?" 
However, the pipeless furnace makes 

its appeal. 
Now, if we could only install a pipeless 

husband in the home — 
Even one that consumed his own 

smoke — 
It misrht pay to do it. 

MAY B. KNOTT. 



Page 19 



The Flu 

Last year it was the German measles, 
And now it is the Spanish influenza. 
I wish those furrin' microbes would 

keep their heads down. 
No more get together movements and 

community sings. 
It is a fine time for canning. 
But no one can complain while the sun 

shines as it does. 
We can do some of the things we have 

put off till a rainy day. 
We have the extra time and the sun- 
shine as well. 
But, oh, to be a small boy now! 
That would be to drain the cup of joy — 
Unless we should "catch it." 
Over in Portland they have not even 

closed the movies. 
But a sneeze is enough to bring a quiet 

request that you leave the theatre. 
Incidentally, your money is refunded. 
For a thoroughly enjoyable afternoon, 

all you would have to do would be to 

watch the film till the last thrill 

crept down your spine. 
Then sneeze! 



Take your dismissal, (and your money,) 
Hie to the movie round the corner and 

repeat the performance. 
Easy. 

But, alas! there is no such luck here. 
All we can do is to stand and look at 

the billboards, 
Get what fun we can out of them — till 

it is time to sneeze. 
Then move on to the next. 
Coming at the same time a& this of- 
fensive move of the Hun, it rather 

complicates matters. 
How are we going to get together and 

talk about that Liberty Loan? 
But, after all, it is not talking that 

will do it. 
It is time for a little quiet thinking 

right now. 

That is just what the Spanish influenza 
is giving us. 

A little time to think whether we can 

buy a bigger bond. 
If so, let her flu! 
Kerchoo! 

MAY B. KNOTT. 



Lamb Chops 



The price of beef upon the hoof 

Is small, they say, but what's the 

proof ? 
The price of beef upon the block — 
Ah, that's the price that gives the shock. 
The little lamb in sportive play. 
Upon the meadows all the day — 
Ah, little does the lambkin ken 
How dear he is to mortal men. 
As on the hoof he prances 'round. 
He's worth perhaps ten cents a pound; 
But through the buyer's hands he'll 

pass. 
And then he's in the two-bit class. 
When at the packer's he arrives. 
He's out of reach of most housewives. 
From hand to hand he's passed along. 
With every move he's quoted "strong." 
Soon that dear lamb of modest worth 
Is just the dearest thing on earth. 
At last, upon the block impaled, 
He now is hoofless, but retailed 
At such a price, that, could he cry. 
His song would be, "Can this be I?" 
We gaze at him as we pass on, 
Somehow, our taste for mutton's gone. 
We purchase something else to eat, 
For lamb costs fifty cents a bleat. 

MAY B. KNOTT. 



Page 20 




Disarmament 

The Powers are going to gather 

And hold a conference. 

It's high time somebody began to use 

some common sense. 
They are going to tell each other 
xr^^ i ^ What we already know, 
^^n?TTil7l That battleships are out of date 
And really ought to go. 
These costly bugaboos will soon 
Be broken into bits; 
The nations keep them just to scare 
The others into fits. 
For if we would destroy our foes, 
Blow them to kingdom come. 
We easily could do it 
. With a small aerial bomb. 
|j|i.- l|i;Dawn will "come up like thunder" 
fij"'!'.. When the Far East question's sprung; 
But clouds will quickly pass away — 
Except above Shangtung. 
The vast Pacific ocean, 
California, and the Jap 
Will be discussed quite freely — 
But they must nqt mention Yap. 
The "far flung ba'ttle line" will stretch 
From India's coral strand 
Half round the world to Albion's 

shore — 
But, hands off Ireland! 
Exceptions only prove the rule 
And they may talk about 
The whole round earth, if they will 

leave 
The Monroe Doctrine out. 
"Discussion here is closed" you see. 
But we don't care for that; 
We want to see these armaments 
Knocked into a cocked hat! 

MAY B. KNOTT. 



The Miser 

We found the miser dying in a hovel 

by himself. 
He long had died to everj-thing except 

his love of pelf. 
And now the worn out body, he had 

starved to feed his purse", 

^ , J^^^. failed him, and he gnashg^ /nite 

nt'. teeth, and muttered a low curse. '"'" 

"The keys!" he snarled, "go bring them 

_ here, and fetch me that small box; 

Who knows but some confounded thief 

has tampered with the locks." 
He seized the box with trembling 

hands. Key after key he turned. 
At last he reached the inmost drawer- 

his glazing eyeballs burned. 
"Safe, safe." he wheezed, "I've got 

them yet, my precious, precious 
store." 



We watched in wild amazement to see 

him bending o'er 
His treasure chest. With greedy eyes 

he fingered o'er his wealth — 
Oh, many a night had found him thus, 

opening the box by stealth. 
To gloat upon his hidden share of what 

men strive for most; 
Without which e'en a kingly cro\vn is 

but an idle boast. 
His dying hands relaxed their hold; 

his head sank on his breast. 
We lifted up the box and found — but 

surely you have guessed. 
We found the hoarded gems for which 

he sold his wretched soul — 
A little cube of sugar, and a little lump 

of coal. 

MAY B. KNOTT. 



Page 21 



The Jitney 



Alas for the jitney! 

The poor little jitney! 

It's barred from the streets so they 

say. 
O, well, we should worry! 
Why all this mad hurry? 
We'll travel the old-fashioned way, 
And ride on the street car. 
The slow-moving street car, 
The steady old street car that passea 

our way. 
The jitneys were fleeting, 
But cramped was the seating, 
We rather would hang on a strap 
Than ride in a jitney, 
A frolicsome jitney. 
With two hundred pounds in our lap. 
But some like the jitney, 
The joy-riding jitney. 
The pitch and toss jitney, at ten cents 

a throw; 
Their only diversion 
Is some such excursion; 



But spite of all protests, the jitney 

must go. 
But autos may swagger. 
Run riot, and stagger. 
All over the thoroughfare stray, 
Knock down the pedestrians. 
And answer no questions, — 
Just step on the gas — and away! 
And we, in our folly, 
Who ride on the trolly, 
Are taxed for the pavement, alas! 
O'er which they may wander 
And gasoline squander, 
While jitneys are turned out to grass. 
There's one consolation; 
When we take our station 
And signal the trolley to stop. 
Limousines autocratic 
At once become static, 
As on to the platform we hop. 
They dare not rush past 
Till the gate is shut fast, — 
If they do we can summon a cop. 

MAY B. KNOTT. 



Signs 



Whene'er I take my walks abroad 

How many signs I see! 

They stretch along the way, and hide 

All signs of spring from me. 

I flee the town to seek the peace 

The countryside affords; 

Leave vexing board-bills far behind 

Only to find bill-boards. 

Here at the cross-roads used to be 

A fine view of a lake; 

'Tis hidden now behind a sign 

Advising us to take 

Our lunch at Chauncey's restaurant, 

Or sample Schilling's tea, 

Another begging us to see 

The "Why" of M. J. B. 

We turn the corner in despair 

And come upon that silly 

Old parrot trying to pronounce 

The name of Ghirardelli. 

I like to watch the alders turn 

From brown to palest green; 

But now between them and the car, 

Rises a ten-foot screen. 

Across the lake the mountains rear 

Their towering peaks, snow-clad, 

But we can only "see that hump" 

On that old Camel ad. 

Faster and faster yet, we flee, 

Only to find we've come 

So many miles to gaze upon 

The charms of Spearmint gum....,., ,.,,„ 

If we discern signs of the timeS.'"'' ' 

In each far-reaching ad. 

We must agree it seems to be 

A sign the times are bad. 

MAY ^.^ KNOTT. , 



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Page 22 

The Old Year 

I ran in to say good-bye to the Old 
Year, and found him packing up. 

I stared about in dismay. 

"It looks as if you were taking every- 
thing," I said. 

"Oh, no,' he answered with a whimsi- 
cal smile, "I am leaving you a few 
things, 

But there is really more rubbish than 
I thought. 

I've sent for the junk man." 

As my eyes wandered around the bare 
walls, I saw a set of New Year Res- 
olutions in a handsome gilt frame. 

"You see," said the Old Year,"you have 
something to start housekeeping on.' 

"Where are the rules of yester-year?" 
T jiskpo 

"Well, really, I don't know. But I'll 
leave you the new ones for a while. 

I'll send round for them later. 

You may need the wall space. 

That will be just the place to hang the 
New Peace Treaty. 

I hear they are going to have one 
framed up soon. 

Oh. by the way, you will find an oil- 
painting of W. J. B. in the parlor. 

I'm leaving that. 

It wouldn't fit in anywhere, you know, 
but it was too good to throw away. 

It's a fine canvas." 

"Thank you," I said absently, "It might 
come in handy if we have a wet spell." 

"Well, I hope you and the New Year 
will get on comfortably; 

But be a bit careful how you treat 
him. His temper is a little uncer- 
tain.' 

I laughed and was bidding him good- 
bye when my glance fell at his feet 
and I saw that he was barefoot. 

I felt a touch of pity for the Old Man, 
going out in the storm like that. 

He caught my glance as it fell and 
handed it back to me. 

"They said shoes were coming down 
next year, so I decided I'd wait," he 
explained. 

"But you will get soaking wet," I cried. 

He gave a little Rve smile. 

"Oh, I don't mind," he said and stepped 
out into the night. 

Somehow I couldn't shut the door on 
the Old Man. 

But I turned round and there was the 
Little New Year 

Standing in the middle of the bare 
room. 

Shivering, but smiling at me. 

MAY B. KNOTT. 



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